


I, the Undersigned

by LunaChai



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaChai/pseuds/LunaChai
Summary: Ingrid needs a wealthy trophy husband. Sylvain needs a Crest-bearing trophy wife. The solution is obvious, especially since they'll never, ever actually fall in love.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 114
Kudos: 327





	1. The Opportunistic Offer

**Author's Note:**

> hit a huge creative block and feelin really down, so where did that lead me? (thanos voice) back to sylgrid
> 
> this is a self-indulgent fic so pls no expectations, no angery, no thoughts head empty

All ideas came from seeds, and this seed was especially terrible.

It started out innocuously enough, as all bad ideas do: as a simple sentence from Sylvain's mouth. (This was generally where the worst ideas came from.) The motley gang had congregated in the training grounds—Felix and Sylvain duking it out on the dusty flooring, weapons ringing and boots scraping, while Ingrid was perched in the stands, sorting through an array of wax-sealed letters. She leafed through one of the epistles, then crumpled it in her hand with a rough sigh.

The noise interrupted the heated duel; Felix and Sylvain turned to her, weapons slowly lowering.

Ingrid only waved a hand. "A proposal again. For the count of House Wallace."

Felix scowled. "House Wallace? The old man who's been married four times?"

"Five." She tore up the letter. "Financially steady, but at the cost of cheating every local merchant. Apparently, they think that we're low enough to sink to such a proposition just to keep our noble status." She ran a hand through her hair, pulling strands out of her tidy braid. "He's clearly not taking us seriously because we're only Galatea."

She stooped down and kicked at another handful of letters on the floor. Her face darkened and her hand tightened on her quill.

"All of these. Onesided trade offers, biased territorial disputes, worthless marriage proposals. Relic, crest, even skill—none of it matters. I guess Galatea just seems that desperate. No one respects us anymore."

Sylvain rested the butt of his training lance on the ground and leaned against it. "You should just start slapping down the Gautier name with all your letters," he said offhandedly. "Ingrid Galatea Gautier. We all might as well belong to the same house, anyway."

Ingrid's quill dropped to the dusty floor at her feet.

"Or marry Felix," Sylvain continued, waving a hand. "He'll be a duke of the right-hand house. Pretty much second in line to the throne."

"Piss off," said Felix.

"See that? Marriage material." Sylvain paused, noticing Ingrid's blank stare. "Ing? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Ingrid said hastily. She stooped over and retrieved the quill, crouching back among the stands. "Nothing's wrong."

That was a lie. Everything was horribly, awfully, dreadfully wrong. Everything was wrong because for one second in her life, Ingrid had seriously considered marrying Sylvain Jose Gautier.

.

.

.

The seed took root one week later.

Sylvain was exiting the dining hall when he found Ingrid settled on the staircase by the pond. A leather journal was opened in her lap, filled with lines of tidy writing. In her hand was a quill, which she tapped absently against the corner of the page until a blot of ink gathered beneath the tip. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the pond glittered blue and gold, and her mouth was set in a concentrated frown.

Sylvain crouched next to her. "Whatcha doing?" he asked easily.

Ingrid sighed, rubbing at her bangs irritatedly. "Making an important decision," she said, nodding to the tiny penmanship in her journal.

Sylvain raised his brows. Yup, that was Ingrid. When faced with crisis, she always took the most sensible route and wrote her pros and cons in a list, mulling them over before making her decision. Not like him or Felix, who liked to charge in headlong and suffer the consequences afterwards.

He craned his neck to peer at her journal, but she tilted the page away from him so he couldn't see.

"C'mon," he said, a little pleadingly.

Ingrid resolutely shook her head. "No."

"Why not?"

She paused. A light flush scattered over her cheeks—no, it had to be a trick of the light. "It's an important decision."

"So?"

"So, I don't want your advice."

Sylvain coughed, hitting his chest with all the drama of a dying seagull. "Ing, I'm wounded. Mortally. You've destroyed me."

She flicked him on the shoulder. "Might I remind you that the last time you gave me advice, we both ended up hounded across the entire monastery by furious kitchen hands, holding rancid spleens and reeking of _pegasus blessings._ "

"That was _one time._ "

She rolled her eyes and didn't deign him with a response, which was pretty fair. That _had_ been spectacularly bad advice. It had also been spectacularly hilarious.

"Alright, then," said Sylvain. "You're about to make a _very important decision_ regarding a _supremely secretive matter_ that you don't want your _exceedingly handsome childhood friend to know about._ Might I venture a guess? It's another marriage prospect."

He expected Ingrid to roll her eyes or slap his back, but she only side-eyed him warily, a slight flush dusting her cheeks. He felt his brows shoot to his hairline.

" _Oh,_ " he said, rubbing his chin. "I see. You're _into_ this prospect."

"Not likely," Ingrid barked, and shut her notebook with a definitive _thud._

"Smells like denial."

"Smells like delusion," she returned.

Sylvain laughed, feeling a surprising tinge of bitterness. "I'll remind you, Ing, that pretty much all nobles are scum. How did this guy appeal to you? Money? Influence? A Crest? It can't be good looks. You've grown up with Felix and me, you've been desensitized."

He caught a slight upward twinge on the corner of her mouth. "Sylvain, I swear."

"Look, just do me a solid?" He turned to face her, making sure she was looking him in the eye. "If this guy wants to meet you in person, let Felix and me come along this time. Don't _not_ tell us because you don't want to bother us. Sound good?"

Her wry gaze softened into a little smile. "Is this about that time with Dorothea?"

"I still can't believe you were planning on going alone." He shook his head. "I'm thankful that the professor didn't let you."

Ingrid looked away, a slight shadow touching her eyes. "I just didn't want to cause any fuss."

"I know." He leaned in, clapping her lightly on the shoulder. "But we all care for you, Ing. Really, if you need anything, and I mean anything at all, you know where I am. Got it?"

He waited for the inevitable _Okay, I need you to stop flirting,_ but it never came. Ingrid's gaze cast to the horizon where the pond met the sky, and her teeth tugged on her lower lip.

"You know what, Sylvain," she said distantly, "I just might take you up on that."

.

.

.

The seed flourished with an invitation to afternoon tea, sent by Ingrid on a free day.

Sylvain dressed his best. He pulled on a blouse, tied on a cravat, and shrugged on his suit jacket. He tidied his hair and dabbed a hint of cologne on his wrists and neck.

And then he walked into the lion's den.

Ingrid was seated beneath a garden pavilion, a generous selection of tea and light snacks arranged before her. Unlike him, she was comfortably dressed in her standard-issue uniform—but even at this distance, he could tell that she was nervous. She was sitting too straight, even beyond her ordinarily perfect posture, and her hands kept arranging and rearranging the wayward strands of her braid.

Sylvain stepped into the pavilion and cleared his throat. Ingrid looked up, and she blinked.

"What in Seiros's name are you wearing?" she said incredulously.

Sylvain reached up and straightened his cravat. "They say that you need to dress your best when you're going to your trial, so the court has a good opinion of you."

Ingrid snorted, but her eyes twinkled with mirth, which Sylvain considered a win. "Saints, Sylvain. Just sit down."

He sat down.

She poured him a cup of tea, which was unusual. He smelled it as he brought it up for a sip. Bergamot, a favorite. Doubly unusual; Ingrid never found the need to win his good graces.

"I wanted to talk about something with you," said Ingrid, and then she added: "Seriously."

"Ingrid, my flower, I'm always serious," said Sylvain.

Her lips flattened. Sylvain laughed.

"Easy there," he said. "I'm just kidding."

Ingrid pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, but she relaxed, hands cradling her teacup. She stared into the dark liquid, oddly hesitant. Sylvain munched on a biscuit as he waited, but she said nothing.

"Ingrid?" he prompted.

Her eyes lifted, piercing, and she spoke firmly, every syllable perfectly enunciated:

"What do you think about us getting married?"

Sylvain blinked.

Ingrid's hands tightened on the teacup.

"What?" said Sylvain.

"Marriage," Ingrid said. "You. Me. Us. Husband and wife. What do you think?"

"I think," said Sylvain, "it's a godawful idea. The worst ever invented."

"Exactly," said Ingrid, and she looked relieved. "It's the worst idea ever, but what makes it even worse is that it solves both of our problems."

Sylvain stared at her, tea and pastries forgotten. She might as well have sprouted antennae and started speaking gibberish.

"Think about it," Ingrid said. "I need to marry into more prominence in order to keep my house afloat. And all the pressure, manipulation, and drama surrounding your house is due to not only your eligibility, but your Crest status. You'd have a Crest wife. And better yet, you could raise a giant middle finger to the world, because it's not like we're going to _sleep together,_ so you'll be a Crest man with a Crest wife and yet not have children—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down." Sylvain raised his hand, and Ingrid cut off quickly. "I can tell you've been thinking about this for a while, Ing, but for me, this idea is completely new. I need to process it."

She nodded nervously and sipped at her tea. Sylvain stared at the table for a moment.

Then: "Okay, so first. You'd never sleep with me?"

To her credit, Ingrid only snorted. "How did I know. How did I know that would be the _first_ thing—"

"I mean, given that we'd be _married,_ it'd just be strange—"

" _Sylvain,_ I know you, I know you'd do anything to avoid having Crest babies because that's what the entire damn world wants from you, and that's why I know we'd never sleep together. Next." She sipped her tea.

Sylvain wanted to refute her, but he couldn't. Sometimes, he hated that she knew him so well.

"Then second," he said. "I thought you didn't want to just be some trophy wife. What are you going to do about being a knight?"

Ingrid's gaze calmed, and she smiled a little. "I thought you might be open to letting me pursue that dream."

"I am, of course." These past few months at the academy had been genuinely fun, because they could pursue it together—taking classes, sparring, skirmishing and practicing. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but Ingrid and Felix had made him actually _enjoy_ school. Most of it.

"Then," said Ingrid, "if you, the husband and head of the house, are alright with it, I don't see why it matters."

He nodded. His father could still be a problem, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. "People will still talk."

"They do little else."

"Point taken."

She waited patiently as he mulled over the idea, debating further points.

"Okay, third," he said. "I don't think the solution to my problems is to add a Crest wife. Change my mind."

She nodded. "You're right, to an extent. The Crest has nothing to do with it, I guess, but the wife does."

"What?"

She stirred her tea and selected a cookie. "You say that women keep hounding you because they want to marry you and have Crest babies. Getting married takes you off the market, which will stop them from trying to use you." When he moved to speak, she lifted a finger. " _And,_ of course, you'd still have chances for your own fun—if you wanted them."

"I don't get your meaning."

The stirring stopped. Her eyes met his. "I'm saying we should make a contract. With stipulations. And one of them should be... well, chances for you to flirt, or have hidden trysts, or whatnot. It's common among married nobles anyway."

" _What?!_ "

"Look," she said sharply, "I might not approve of your... habits, but I'm not going to force you to change your entire life, just like you're not going to force me to change mine. If we do this, we both win, we both get what we want. I save my house but keep being a knight, and you lift the pressure and the annoying noblewomen but keep your fun. This is actually the ideal solution _because_ we're not in love."

Sylvain slumped in his chair, flabbergasted. If someone had told him yesterday that _Ingrid_ would be propositioning marriage _to him,_ he would have dismissed the fellow as incurably insane. And then watched as Ingrid beat said fellow into next week. But instead, here he was, and here she was: in reality, genuinely considering marriage.

Well, a fake marriage. One from convenience and advantage.

And if he was honest with himself, that was the best kind of marriage—for him, at least. Despite his proclamations of romance and spontaneity, in the end, he liked predictability in the things that mattered. He liked knowing what grades he would get—barely passing, much to Byleth's exasperation—and where his cards would fall. He liked knowing who would be by his side, and that was why he had gone out of his way to enter the academy at the same time as Felix and Ingrid. He needed stability so that he could be spontaneous; an odd combination for most, but perfectly sensible to him.

And Ingrid knew that. Ingrid knew him.

Ingrid seemed nervous at his silence. She sipped her tea again, then cleared her throat. "Of course, I know that this is pretty rude. You're tired of people trying to marry you for their advantage, and here I am. I just thought I'd mention it as an idea. If you want, you can walk away, we can call this quits, we can forget this ever happened."

Sylvain stared into his teacup, like it would magically provide a perfect answer. He saw, coincidentally, only tea.

"Uh," said Ingrid, biting her lip, "if you're mad, go ahead and just say something—"

"I'm not mad," Sylvain said. His eyes drew up and met hers. "I'm just thinking. It's quite a bomb you dropped."

Ingrid settled back, munching nervously on a macaron. Sylvain mused for a stretch of time, then settled his thoughts.

"I assume we'd have to talk details," he said.

Ingrid nodded sharply. "Of course."

"And figure out how exactly this deal will work, and if it's really a good idea at all."

"No obligations for now," Ingrid agreed. "Just looking for ideas."

Marriage. With Ingrid. He'd joked about it before, many times—but now that it was staring him straight in the face as an actual possibility, he couldn't even process it.

Sylvain swallowed and asked his final question. "Fourth. Nothing will change between us?"

Ingrid didn't hesitate. "Of course not. Nothing at all."

Something in him eased. She conveyed so much in those few words: that when it cane down to it, their friendship mattered, and she'd never let it go, just like he'd never let it go. They would fight for each other until the very end, come hell or high water. A fake marriage, if they decided to pursue one, would never break the bond between them.

So Sylvain extended his hand with an easy smile. "I'm open to the idea. Deal?"

Ingrid smiled back, relaxing. She seized his hand with a firm grip. "Deal."

He shook it.


	2. The Casual Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a light case of Feelings are caught. generally benign and noninfectious, although complications can lead to abject misery and a broken heart.

On a sunny Monday at the training grounds, Felix's life changed forever.

At this point, most of his days had become routine: rise, eat, attend class, train. Occasional missions, occasional exams. Ideally, some blows were dealt and some blood was spilled. Rinse and repeat.

But this particular Monday didn't only break the pattern—it seized it, crushed it underfoot, and danced on its corpse while laughing maniacally.

Felix had always scorned the popular trend—if the insipid gossip of his classmates was anything to go by—of romantic tension on the training grounds. Sparring sessions were nowhere near as romantic as the stories claimed. Between the air of professionalism, the heat of competition, and the singular, primal focus of self-preservation, most students focused solely on improvement during their lessons. After all, the curriculum at the Officers Academy wasn't for vague results like _cultural enlightenment_ or _self-discovery;_ it was to teach you how to keep yourself alive and keep the opponent dead.

Unfortunately, despite these prior beliefs, Felix couldn't deny what was happening before his very eyes.

From the moment he'd set foot on the training grounds, he'd noticed that something was... strange. It probably had to do with the way Ingrid's hand lingered when Sylvain passed her a training lance, or the way Sylvain's lips parted when Ingrid shook out her hair in favor of a quick, low ponytail at the base of her neck. Or maybe it had to do with the way Ingrid flushed when Sylvain took her jacket, or the way Sylvain's eyelids fluttered, _fluttered,_ when she nudged him teasingly.

Something very unusual was at play, and Felix didn't like it.

They began sparring, lance clattering against lance. Felix crouched in the stands, feeling his hackles rise with every strike.

Why? What was happening? What was wrong?

"You'll have to do better than that," Ingrid goaded, sweeping around an obvious blow to her stomach. She was always good at footwork, evading enemy strikes that should have hit her.

Sylvain only grinned back. "I can think of _several_ things I can do better," he taunted back.

 _Predictable,_ Professor Byleth would have said dryly. It was such cringingly low-hanging fruit that Felix wanted to rip out his own ears just for hearing it.

But shockingly enough, Ingrid's feet stuttered.

She toppled.

Sylvain toppled with her.

Felix watched as, like a scene straight of literature, Sylvain fell on Ingrid, hands braced next to her head and his face just an inch from hers. They stayed there for a long moment, frozen in time, bodies just an inch away from being completely flush.

Felix waited for Ingrid to do as Ingrid did: roll her eyes, push him away, and snipe at him for his criminally low dexterity.

But Ingrid didn't roll her eyes. Ingrid didn't push him away.

Instead, she looked up at Sylvain, frozen, eyes wide and pink flushing over her cheeks. And Sylvain—his mouth was serious, eyes half-lidded. He looked at her with a heat that Felix had never seen from him before, and in response, Ingrid's tongue dragged at her lower lip.

Before he realized it, Felix was rising to his feet. Across from him, so did Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, who had been carefully polishing his lance.

This had never happened. This _didn't_ happen. It just wasn't a thing that Ingrid and Sylvain did.

"Do you concede?" said Sylvain quietly, barely audible from their distance.

Ingrid blinked, and something sparked in her gaze. Her arm pivoted out, slamming down on his arm, and Sylvain yelped, destabilized. She seized his collar and threw her weight over, driving him to the ground. With one whip of her arm, she drew the training knife at her hip and pinned him beneath her, wooden blade set at his throat.

"I don't know," she said. "Do you?" Her voice lilted up at the end. _Flirtatiously?!_

 _Stop,_ Felix wanted to snap. The training grounds were a _sacred_ domain, meant for improvement and honing the art of combat. Not—not whatever this—this _silliness_ was.

But no matter what he invented, the words wouldn't leave his mouth. It was as if he was an invisible spectator—an observer left out of this little world created by his closest friends.

Last week's Sylvain would've laughed, admitted defeat, and seized Ingrid's hand to pull himself up. This week's Sylvain opened his mouth, eyes dazed, and said distantly, "That's hot."

Felix wanted to _strangle_ him.

Last week's Ingrid would've slammed the hilt of that wooden dagger on Sylvain's forehead with a dour glare. This week's Ingrid simply flushed, scrambled off of him, and stuck out a hand to help him up.

Felix wanted to _strangle_ her.

Sylvain gripped her hand, and she pulled him up. He (too easily, too conveniently, too _recklessly_ ) stumbled into her, his chest bumping her shoulder and his mouth hovering by her ear. They stood there, too close and too tender, breathing in heavy silence.

Dimitri cleared his throat.

They sprung apart, at least having the conscience to look properly abashed. Ingrid scuttled away to slot her training lance and dagger in the weapon rack, and Sylvain took a keen interest in studying his shoes.

"Er," said Dimitri after a moment of deliberation, "victory to Ingrid."

 _Astute observation, boar,_ Felix wanted to snap—if he could just _talk._

Sylvain laughed (too bright, too forced) and laced his fingers behind his head. "Imagine that. You got me good, Ing."

Ingrid's poise was regained as she trotted back to the center of the field, arms crossed. "You really need to stop fooling around while we're sparring."

"Excuse me, my flower, but I just gave what I received. You started the gibes. What choice did I have but to follow?"

"If you're going to taunt back, at _least_ invent some tolerable lines. That one was downright awful."

"Isn't that the charm?"

Ingrid sighed and pulled Sylvain off the field by his ear, and Sylvain complained the entire time, and they seemed back to normal.

But Felix knew better.

On a sunny Monday at the training grounds, Felix watched as his friends changed forever.

.

.

.

"First order of business," Ingrid said one week ago, brandishing a dipped quill over a fresh sheet of parchment. "We have to even determine if this can be believable. Let's think about the beginning."

Sylvain tipped his head. "The beginning?"

"Our timeline," said Ingrid. "For getting engaged and getting married. And before that, getting people to think we'd fallen in love—without looking suspicious."

"Ah, yes. The predictable science of falling in love."

"You know what I mean."

They were currently crouched in some obscure backalley storage closet, packed with dusty knickknacks and barely large enough to seat two people. Sylvain was so close that she felt his knees pressing against hers, and she could count the hairs falling into his eyes from the structured hold of his styling ointment. She didn't ask how he knew about this closet. She already had a fairly good idea.

"I guess the first question is," said Sylvain, "when do you actually want to get married? Before you graduate or after?"

"Before," Ingrid said firmly.

Sylvain looked surprised. "Before?"

"I'd rather enter knighthood already married," Ingrid said. She paused, deliberating her words for a moment. "Get married _while_ you're a knight, and suddenly, everyone will baby you or try to kick you out because they think you're starting a family. I'd rather have everyone already used to it."

Sylvain rubbed his chin, then nodded. "A fair point. But if that's the case, we don't have much time."

Ingrid nodded. "I'm afraid this whole thing will seem too rushed. If it's too rushed, nobody will believe it."

"I think it's totally believable." Sylvain grinned. "You couldn't be immune to my charms _forever._ "

Ingrid kicked him lightly in the ankle. He choked out a laugh.

"In all seriousness," said Sylvain, "we can bounce some ideas off of Felix. For all his pretense, he can actually be pretty sharp when he wants—"

"Not Felix."

Sylvain stopped, his eyes flickering up to Ingrid. She cleared her throat and looked away.

"We have to be good." She paused. "And by that, I don't really mean good. I mean _flawless._ "

"I'm always flawless," Sylvain began, but Ingrid interrupted him—

"Which means we can't tell Felix."

Sylvain blinked. Ingrid's gaze wavered.

His mind ran blank. With him, Ingrid, and Felix, there had never been two without three. They shared nearly everything, whether it was cruel words, delicious meals, or weekend shenanigans. Leaving Felix out of the loop? He couldn't even imagine it.

"But," said Sylvain, "he's _Felix._ "

Ingrid's grip tightened on her quill. "I know. And I know he wouldn't tell anyone. But he wouldn't even need to. If anyone's suspicious of our relationship, you know where they'll look? Felix. And it'll be obvious within five seconds whether Felix believes our relationship is real or not."

"Will it really?"

She gave him a dour look. Sylvain took a moment to imagine it—Annette cheerily mentioning, _Oh, Ingrid and Sylvain are so cute!_ only to be answered with a sharp, cutting laugh. Or Mercedes carefully baking some congratulatory wedding cupcakes, only to have Felix mutter under his breath, _Why even bother._

"Huh," he said. "You might have a point."

"Yeah," Ingrid said. She grimaced lightly. "I know. I hate to leave him out of it, too."

"It doesn't feel right," Sylvain finished for her.

"It doesn't," she agreed. She sighed, looking down at the contract. "But if we're going to do this, there's no point in doing it halfway."

Sylvain balked. "But that's my specialty."

Ingrid only rubbed at her temples, and she didn't deign to address this comment. Which was fair.

"Well, if we can't convince people, we won't have to worry about it either way," she said dryly. "I've been racking my brain all week, but I just can't think of anything that would work. It's all so _contrived._ "

"Don't you exclusively read overdramatic legends of fictional knights?"

"No one believes those to be true," Ingrid pointed out.

Sylvain quieted, staring at the dusty wall for a long moment. It _was_ a bit of a conundrum, especially since he and Ingrid had met any suspicions of dating with quick and fervent denial. Something had to change between them. Something explosive, but believable. Something like a merchant's call in the festival bazaar: captivating, but convincin—

And then he saw it. Like the wartime stratagem puzzles he liked to solve, he saw the right path.

"Here's our cover story," said Sylvain, snapping his fingers. "We've been secretly in love with each other forever, but we just never realized it. One day, we unearth the chemistry between us, and _bam._ We realize that we actually love each other, and we're an amazing match."

Ingrid frowned. "It's a good thought, but isn't that too unrealistic?"

"What do you mean?"

She tapped the end of her quill lightly against her chin. It was kind of cute. "We've known each other for a really long time. Why wouldn't this happen before? It just doesn't make sense."

"My dear Ingrid," said Sylvain, and he winked, "the first thing you have to realize about running a show is that it has nothing to do with the content."

She looked at him, still frowning. He grinned wider.

"It's all how you sell it."

.

.

.

After their little show on the training grounds, Ingrid approached Sylvain in the dining hall.

She strode in with purpose, seized him by the collar (which kind of, well, made him feel weird, not that he'd _ever_ be caught dead saying that aloud about _Ingrid_ ), and dragged him out of the premises, dipping into the alley by the stables. Sylvain winced, expecting a shove or a flick or a slap across the face for his brazen behavior at the training grounds. But instead, Ingrid only beamed and nudged his shoulder.

"Goddess, Sylvain," she said excitedly. "You were brilliant."

He blinked. "Er, what?"

Ingrid laughed. The sound tinkled. "Did you see Dimitri and Felix? They bought it. Every second."

He nudged her back. "Yeah, what did I tell you? I'm actually a genius."

"In this case, I'll admit it." She thumbed enthusiastically towards the dining hall. "Extra dessert today? My treat."

She was offering to buy food. For him. Voluntarily.

"Who are you," he said bemusedly, "and what have you done with Ingrid?"

She nudged him again. It was without force. Playful. He wasn't used to this Ingrid. "Come on," she said. "I know how to reward my partner after a job well done. I'm not _that_ terrible."

Oh, right.

Partners.

They were going to be partners in this endeavor, in more ways than one.

Sylvain cleared his throat. "Uh, I see. Yes. Thank you."

Ingrid frowned. She leaned close, her eyes zeroing in on his face and her nose approaching his mouth. It never bothered him before. "You're acting weird. Are you sick?"

He stepped away. He should've stayed where he was, he should've hit her with his usual suave, unaffected grin, but he didn't. He stepped away so that he could breathe.

"I'm not sick," he managed, forcing his voice to stay light. _There,_ an opportunity. "Unless you mean lovesick," he continued, waggling his brows.

Ingrid laughed. Actually laughed—not a chortle, not a snort. She still seemed to be relishing the high of their perfect show.

"Exactly," she said. "Come on. You need to pick out your dessert."

He watched her hair flow like koi in the river as she turned, he watched the color of pale hibiscus bloom in her cheeks, he watched her hips sway lightly with her stride. He watched as she disappeared around the corner and left him standing, hands hanging at his sides.

 _Oh,_ thought Sylvain.

Then: _Oh no._

.

.

.

Falling in love, Sylvain mused, was probably akin to being in a city under siege.

For the most part, as long as the city walls held strong, you could go about your day pretending as if nothing was wrong—working and shopping and cooking and cleaning, forgetting the fact that enemy battalions were camped right outside your door. And for the most part, it could work. Prices might rise and food might run low, but it could work.

But the moment those walls fell or the gates opened, everything would pour in at once, all hell would break loose, and life was officially over.

Ingrid, Sylvain mused, was probably like that enemy force.

He'd never thought of her as ugly; far from it. But for years now, he had erected a very solid _do-not-touch-do-not-pass-go-do-not-collect-200g_ barrier between them, at least in his mind. She was off-limits. He could throw out a flirty line here and there, but he never committed to it, and she always understood them for what they were: jokes to lighten the mood.

(Why? He didn't know. He _definitely_ had attempted when they were kids, but when had it stopped?)

(Oh.)

(The Tragedy of Duscur, he supposed.)

However, with that single moment at the training grounds, everything had changed. The walls had broken, the gates had been breached, and the city had erupted into chaos. For the sake of acting, Sylvain had willed himself into seeing Ingrid as not just a familiar friend, but as an attractive woman. For the sake of a lie, he had tried to unearth some kind of chemistry.

And it had worked. Brutally.

With her hair aflame from the sun, her eyes blazing green fire, and her skin aglow with sweat, she looked like an angel of death descended from the very heavens. Sylvain had only stared dumbly, wondering to where his twiggy, straight-laced childhood friend had disappeared. He'd felt his heart suddenly pick up in his chest like a runner exploding from the starting line, bursting painfully until his face had exploded with color.

Ingrid had been _hot._

Which was illegal.

 _I'm in crisis,_ Sylvain thought idly, then: _I'm in crisis because my best friend is hot._

They thought they'd walked onto this ordeal fully prepared, having walked through every expectation, every guideline, and every possible scenario. But were they really ready?

Was _he_ really ready?

 _Congratulations, Sylvain,_ Sylvain thought morosely, burying his head in his hands. _You played yourself._

.

.

.

They were extremely strategic throughout the week. Every day was another move and another step forward, just like a hidden game of chess.

During class, Ingrid would catch Sylvain's eye in purposeful "hidden" glances. She'd blush and tuck her hair behind her ear, and he'd clear his throat.

During training, Sylvain would always lean closer than necessary and brush his hand against the small of Ingrid's back.

During tournaments, Ingrid would lower her hands to the edge of the bench, letting her pinky lie against Sylvain's.

And just as planned, the attention was growing. Classmates were starting to notice, and Ingrid had no doubt that they took up the majority of lunchroom gossip. Was Sylvain, the notorious flirt, finally focusing his attentions? Was Ingrid, the singleminded knight-in-training, finally opening her heart?

They made even bolder strides. Ingrid grabbed Sylvain's hand on the way to the stables. Sylvain held Ingrid's hair back when she washed her face after training. Ingrid wiped the sweat from Sylvain's brow with her handkerchief. Sylvain even agreed to study with her, so long as they sat together in the library.

And one Horsebow Moon afternoon in the dining hall, Ingrid made her move.

They were sitting with Felix, enjoying a steaming plate of roast pheasant. Sylvain was happily chatting about the fact that he'd shared four words with Bernadetta before she'd scampered off—four words!—when Ingrid cleared her throat and gave him a significant look, nudging her chin to her far shoulder.

Oh. _Oh._

Sylvain stretched, casually laying an arm over her shoulders. Felix noticeably froze, no doubt expecting Ingrid's retribution to follow.

She only kept eating, as if having Sylvain's arm around her shoulders was the most natural thing in the world.

"Maybe you'd know," she was saying, although Sylvain wasn't listening particularly well past the slim weight under his arm. "I've been trying to find a better way to get Bernadetta to class that doesn't involve breaking down her door. I was thinking of, you know, leaving a trail of something to lure her out."

"Like a rat?" Sylvain said amusedly.

Ingrid snorted. "Hey, you did the same to me with that trail of steak bit—"

Felix slammed his fork down. The entire table rattled, blasting the dining hall with silence as all conversation died and all eyes turned to them.

"Alright," Felix said bluntly. "Cut the bullshit. What's going on."

Sylvain instinctively withdrew his arm. Even Ingrid looked unsettled as she cleared her throat and dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

"Nothing," she said unconvincingly.

Felix's eyes narrowed, and Sylvain quickly received the full force of a razor-sharp amber gaze cutting into his very soul. Felix didn't believe her. Of course Felix wouldn't believe her; the only thing Felix would believe was...

And suddenly, just like a board of pieces set in formation, Sylvain saw the right path.

"Well," he said easily, leaning towards Ingrid, "it _could_ be something. Right, Ing?"

Ingrid turned to him in wide-eyed panic. "Sylvain—how could you—"

He stooped even closer until his nose was touching hers. Her eyes were giant in his vision, and he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. If he tilted his head just a little, he'd be kissing her.

"It's on you," he said quietly. "I'm still waiting for my answer."

Ingrid was silent for a moment. Her eyes flickered over every feature of his face, searching. Sylvain forced himself to stay still, trying not to think about how her bangs were brushing his forehead or how her eyes caught the indoor light or how her lips looked plush and pliant.

Then finally, understanding dawned on her face. Right on cue, she flushed prettily and turned back to her plate.

Felix, for the first time in years, seemed completely bereft of words. With his red cheeks and his tightly drawn brows, he looked like a painful mess between outraged, stunned, and disgusted. It would have been comedic if it wasn't so sad. Sylvain knew the man long enough to know that, no matter how much he was loathe to admit it, his feelings were hurt from being left out.

"So, uh, Fe," he fumbled, when—

Felix abruptly stood, letting the bench rattle below him. He took up his tray and fixed them with an icy look.

"I'm going to eat somewhere else," Felix barked. "Somewhere that doesn't make me feel sick."

He strode out of the dining hall with his tray, leaving their table in silence.

Ingrid and Sylvain hurriedly finished their meal, then reconvened in Ingrid's room to debrief. The first five minutes were unproductive, filled with nothing but a thick, awkward silence that felt impossible to break.

There was no doubt about it: keeping a secret from Felix felt worse, _way_ worse, than they'd originally anticipated.

"He thinks he's getting left behind," Ingrid mumbled.

Sylvain ran a hand through his hair. "You wanna tell him?"

"You know we can't. Not if we want to keep going."

Sylvain knelt in front of her. He waited until she raised her head and looked him in the eye, her green eyes a little watery at the edges.

"Should we keep going?" he asked gently.

Ingrid's fingers whitened in her skirt, and she ducked her head again. "I got a letter from my father the other day," she murmured. "The harvest was even worse this year. Some of the fields still lie fallow after getting burned out by bandits. He doesn't want to worry me, but my siblings—it's not good. _Winter_ won't be good."

Sylvain knew how much it hurt for her to admit it. Above all, she hated being seen as a beggar or a miser.

He laid a hand over hers. "Then we keep going," he said softly.

.

.

.

"Before we go any further," Ingrid said three weeks ago in that reclusive closet, brandishing her quill pen, "we want to figure out some terms and conditions on this marriage."

Sylvain nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. The part that everyone skims."

Ingrid batted him lightly on the shoulder, then set her quill to the paper. "I think it's best we start with our expectations," she said thoughtfully. "What do you expect to get from this contract marriage? And be specific."

He grinned. " _How_ specific, exactly?"

Ingrid batted him again.

Sylvain rubbed his shoulder. "It was just a question."

"Uh-huh." She returned to the page, which already had a tidy paragraph etched into the upper half. "I guess that means I'm going first."

She paused, tapping the quill lightly on the paper. Then she wrote swift, assured sentences.

"I, Ingrid," she dictated to herself, "expect to have freedom over my personal life and choices, so long as they do not hinder or harm this Contract or its participants in any way. I expect to acquire and uphold a respectful relationship with family members on both sides. Finally, I expect to keep a close relationship with mutual respect and understanding with my life partner, consisting of honest communication, trust, and a recreational outing once per week."

She lifted the quill from the page and handed the contract to him.

"Wow, look at you," said Sylvain approvingly. "You should've become a lawyer."

"Ha. How dare you."

He took the paper from her. "And—did you just say that we need to date once a week?"

"Friendship date," Ingrid said quickly. "It's not as important now, since we see each other all the time at school—but once we graduate, I don't want to become strangers."

He grinned. "Little chance of that. You're stuck with me now, Ing."

"Oh, the horror," she said, nudging his shoulder.

A small part of him was surprised that she'd even mentioned a weekly gathering. They'd been inseparable since childhood. Did she honestly think that this symbiotic arrangement would change anything between them?

Either way, it had the unusual effect of making him feel warm and fuzzy. It was rare when Ingrid dropped her tough and pragmatic front, but when it came down to it, she honestly loved him and Felix.

"Well?" prompted Ingrid, breaking him out of his thoughts. "What are your expectations for this arrangement? You need benefits, too."

Sylvain sat there, quill poised over the contract. One crystal-clear sentence throttled to his mind, overtaking everything else in his senses until it was the only phrase screaming in his head:

_I, Sylvain, expect you to stay by my side._

The sentence shocked him in its simplicity, but the moment he heard it, he understood it.

People didn't stay by Gautiers. They were the hard-nosed, Crest-obsessed, brutal house to the north always embroiled in fights against Sreng: honorable and lauded from afar, but hated up close. His father was an ass, his mother was a spineless, sickly thing, his brother was a traitor and a rabid cur, and his scant extended relatives were just additional pricks who liked to load pressure on his shoulders; none of them had been on his side. Hell, even the girls he dated were usually the first to leave once they smelled there wouldn't be any chance of a Crest baby.

What Sylvain really wanted was simple. He wanted someone to stand by him on the frozen mountain. He wanted someone to take his side when he was dumped into the cold dark of a well for six hours. He wanted someone who'd crawl into his room at night to surprise him with pastries instead of knives.

He wanted someone to stay. For him, not his Crest.

But emotional vulnerability was too risky, too hard, and his default panic button of _cover-it-up-with-a-glib-joke_ superseded all else.

"I don't think you can handle my expectations," he said, grinning widely.

To his surprise, Ingrid didn't even punch him. She only gave him a flat look, tinged with—to his shock and resulting guilt—a little hurt.

"I'm trying to be genuine here, Sylvain," she said dryly. "We're considering a life-altering change here. Please, for once in your life, just take it seriously."

"Sorry," he mumbled contritely. Ingrid was always so strong that whenever she got that rare sad look in her eye—like when she wrote to her father, or on Glenn's death anniversary—he was completely defenseless.

He started the sentence: _I, Sylvain—_

And stopped.

 _—expect Ingrid to stay by my side_ was the only sentence echoing in his head.

Saints, as if he could write such a disastrous claim. He needed to think.

"I, Sylvain," he began, clearing his throat, "expect to remain close friends with my partner. I expect us to, uh... be... married."

Ingrid gave him a Look.

"C'mon, help me out here," he wheedled. "Not all of us are as eloquent as you. I don't even know what I want."

She crooked a brow. "How about the right to keep a string of women as your harem?"

"Ing," Sylvain complained.

"I'm being serious," Ingrid said, which was probably the worst part. She was.

Sylvain paused for a moment, tapping his quill against the paper. To Ingrid, it had always been about the women. She thought that he was a perpetual skirt-chaser because he couldn't deny a pretty face to save his life.

Something about that raised his competitive side. He wanted to challenge her preconceived notions.

He set the quill to paper, this time with confidence. "I, Sylvain," he dictated clearly, "expect to remain close friends with my partner. I expect to give and receive clear communication on our wants, needs, and requirements of this arrangement. I expect that there will _never_ be any use of physical force, intimidation, or other manipulative effort of either party. And finally, should a romantic opportunity outside of this marriage raise itself"—and he said this last bit while looking Ingrid directly in the eye—"I expect that firstly, it must remain covert, and secondly, to only engage with the knowing consent of the other signee."

Ingrid met his gaze without flinching. Maybe he was imagining it, but her cheeks seemed a little pinker than usual.

"And you were just saying you weren't eloquent," she said softly. "Look at what you can do when you try."

Sylvain put down the quill. Writing that sentence had been partially vindictive, yes—but also, in a way, freeing. It was almost as if he'd asserted that he could become more than the most artless, devious, and inconsiderate womanizer to ever plague the planet. He had never wanted to before, primarily because he was never convinced he could have.

"But, with that being said," Ingrid continued, regaining her quick and practical cadence, "the whole point of this contract is that you shouldn't have to check with me. If I have the freedom be a knight, then you have the freedom to be... an idiot."

Sylvain shrugged. "I've been thinking."

"Uh oh."

"If I just waltz around as per usual, enthralling all the lovely lambs into my flock—"

"A very unnecessary metaphor."

"—then people will start to talk." He looked at her. "First, the house staff. Then the nobles. Then the whole kingdom. You'll be seen as some throwaway mistress who was only married so she could pop out Crest babies, less desirable than some common villager on the street who was seduced into the margrave's bed."

Ingrid was struck speechless, mouth agape as she stared at him.

Sylvain looked away. "I wouldn't do that to you, Ing. Even if you decide to fly off to Fhirdiad to bathe this land in some knightly crusade, and forget all about the Gautier homeland. I wouldn't do that to your reputation."

Ingrid closed her mouth. Then opened her mouth. Then closed it again.

"That's very thoughtful," she eventually managed. She seemed oddly vulnerable and stumbled to find a cover of sarcasm. "I'm shocked."

"You'll find, my flower, that I'm an extremely thoughtful and considerate man," said Sylvain—strategically, to lighten the mood.

"And, apparently, extremely humble."

"My greatest quality."

Her lips quirked up, but her gaze was serious on his. He was overwhelmed by shades of jade-green. "I didn't do this to constrain you, Sylvain," she said. "I mean it."

Sylvain wondered who she was seeing. A shameless flirt? A trapped aristocrat? Her dear childhood friend?

"I know," he said quietly. "And I mean this."

He handed the scroll and pen back to her. The ink on the last sentence dried in the musty closet air, burning into the parchment.

.

.

.

They were three months into fake-dating, and by now, the entire Academy was aware of it.

The dating. Not the fake part.

The reactions had been, needless to say, mixed. Ingrid had been forced to deal with more than one inconsolable young maiden, some of whom tried to take a knife to her throat. (This surprisingly angered Sylvain, who was more than alright with knives at _his own_ throat, but hated to see them directed at Ingrid. She managed to reassure him that she saw it as welcome practice for ambushes on the battlefield.)

Sylvain, on the other hand, had been forced to deal with more than one death threat from Ingrid's considerable host of overprotective associates: Annette speared his direction with two fingers, Dorothea spun her sword with a flourish and a meaningful look below his waist, and even Seteth—Seteth!—advised him on the "proper procedures of courtship, none of which entail, as you young ones call it, _two-timing._ "

Needless to say, their free day at the week's end had never been more welcome.

It was an unseasonably warm sunset in Red Wolf Moon when Ingrid trudged back from the stables, only to be greeted in front of the greenhouse by a geared-up Sylvain leaning against his wyvern. When he saw her, he waved.

"Care for a ride?" he asked, one side of his mouth pulling up in a lopsided grin. He held up the reins.

Sometimes, when the lighting was just right and the clothes fell on his figure just so, Ingrid was forced to admit that he looked devilishly handsome. Sometimes.

"Any particular occasion?" she asked, raising a brow. She lifted a hand to brush the wyvern's snout—Hyperion, if she remembered his name correctly. Hyperion warbled warmly at her touch.

"But of course," said Sylvain. "The most romantic of them all. Today's the day we get engaged."

Ingrid's hand stopped on Hyperion, who groused at her a little.

Right. She and Sylvain had planned on starting the official engagement in Red Wolf Moon, then getting married in Ethereal Moon.

Her pulse skipped in her chest. So, this was it: the moment of truth, the point of no return.

"Where's the ring?" she said. "What's our story? I'll start wearing it tomorrow—"

"Ingrid, Ingrid," Sylvain said, clicking his tongue. "Surely you know me better than that."

"Better than what?"

He nodded at Hyperion. "I'll let you see for yourself," he said. That devilish grin returned.

Ingrid's eyes flickered from him to Hyperion and back. She wasn't sure why, but a coil of nervousness was starting to wind in her stomach.

"Let me drop off my stuff," she said, gesturing to the pack slung over her shoulder.

It took only a few minutes to deposit her belongings in her dorm room, primarily since the moment she was out of sight, she bolted up the steps two at a time and rushed to tidy her hair into something presentable. Not that she'd ever tell Sylvain that. When she descended the stairs, she was calm and dignified like every levelheaded, unaffected childhood friend might be.

Ingrid mounted first, and Sylvain settled behind her, holding the reins low at her hips. She hadn't ridden with a man before—only Professor Manuela for demonstrations—and it was an odd feeling to have Sylvain's arms around her and his chest solidly against her back. She tried not to dwell on it as they took to the skies.

Flying on Hyperion was different than flying on Theia, her own airborne steed. Theia was elegant and maneuverable in the sky, canting at the slightest turn of the reins—almost like liquid moonlight. Hyperion was a notably different beast, hard, protective plates edging into her calves where Theia had smooth flanks. He handled sleekly in his own way, but with an undeniable power and momentum that was difficult to control. If a pegasus was a queen, then a wyvern was a ballista.

Sylvain guided Hyperion high above Garreg Mach until the dormitories pinwheeled into tiny dots. Then he turned, heading to the cliffside. They swept over a blooming field of lilies, and a lush, floral scent stirred up to them by the late autumn wind, filling Ingrid's lungs with color. She tilted her head back and laughed, throwing her arms out like she could embrace the wind.

Goddess, _this_ was what she adored about flying. Here in the sky, with the cool air rushing past her face, soaring through the clouds with nothing to hold her down, she was _free._ It gave her a welling sense of exhilaration that was irreplaceable.

Sylvain looked down at her, and she saw him smiling. She probably looked either like a kid or an idiot at the moment, but she didn't care. Flying was everything.

Hyperion alighted on the edge of the cliffside, and as they dismounted, Ingrid noticed that the area had been decorated. An elegant mauve blanket with embroidered edges had been laid out, held down by an array of picnic baskets. Flowers dotted the area—some growing from the tufts of wildgrass, and some tied neatly in bouquets and placed carefully around the blanket. The entire setting, backlit by the golden sunset, stirred something in Ingrid that felt oddly warm.

"Sylvain," she said distantly. She was awkwardly frozen to the ground, staring at the picturesque set like an outsider.

Sylvain settled Hyperion down, then easily strode to the edge of the cliff and dropped onto the picnic blanket. "You like it?" he said amusedly, patting the space next to him.

She didn't move.

"I know that we could've just invented a story and you could've just started to wear the ring," said Sylvain, his voice gentle yet lilting and unnecessarily melodic, "but Ing, you only get proposed to—probably, hopefully—once in your life. So, you know. I thought I should make it worth your while."

Ingrid stood there, her heart in her throat, staring at the way the dying sunlight caught the edges of his face and flared through his hair.

 _Oh no,_ she thought, and swallowed.

She brushed down her riding skirt and sat on the edge of the cliff, dangling her feet over the yawning gap below. Sylvain took something from the nearby picnic basket and extended it to her. In his hand was a single rose, fresh and vibrant in shades of cherry blossom pink.

"For you, my lady," he said. His tone should have been light and joking, but it was strangely husky.

Ingrid accepted the rose. Despite herself, a feeling like golden sunshine warmed her chest. It didn't matter that Sylvain had probably done this countless times with countless other girls. For this moment, she felt damn _special._

"What are you thinking right now, Ing?" Sylvain said quietly.

She looked up to smile at him, and was stricken by the warm hazel of his eyes. "I'm thinking that I'm impressed. Very impressed."

He smiled back. Something throbbed below her skin. "Good."

No _I am rather impressive,_ no _Of course you are._ It was genuine and friendly in a way that made her pause.

"I like roses," Ingrid blurted. She kept her eyes fixed on the flowering blossom. "I never thought it was worth bringing up, since, well, I don't exactly have the most ladylike reputation. But... it's really nice to receive one. So thank you."

She'd also never tell him, but she loved that he got her a pink rose. Red reminded her of too much. Lorenz's saccharine words, Sylvain's own apology bouquets, blood washed over stone. Pink was girlish and luxurious and all the things she hadn't been able to indulge in as a child.

Sylvain's smile widened. He turned back to the fiery sky. "I know you like roses," he said. "They're always on the book covers of those knight stories you love so much."

The sun was _perfect_ on his profile and he was gorgeous and the atmosphere was heady and warm and it was too much. Ingrid quickly nudged his shoulder. "Hey, I'm just grateful you didn't get me a meat bouquet."

"Don't tempt me," he chuckled. "I've still got some quail nuggets with your name on them."

She paused. "Do you actually?"

"My dear, what do you take me for?" He removed the lid of the basket and reached inside, extracting a covered plate with a flourish. "Is not food the language of love?"

Ingrid eagerly took the plate and pried off the porcelain cover. Bite-sized pieces of quail, fried in oil and coated with savory citrus sauce, winked up at her from a bed of jasmine rice. She made an embarrassing noise that was somewhere between a high-pitched squeak and breathy moan.

Okay, so she still loved meat. Sue her.

"Sylvain, I take back everything bad I've said about you," she said. He handed her a spoon with a grin, and she started to dig in with relish.

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," he said, laughing.

"It's true. Everything is invalidated in the face of good food."

Sylvain fell back against the grass to stare at the darkening sky. "Even dealing with all the incensed lords and their heartbroken daughters? Even handling the wrath of slighted village women? You're a veritable saint, Ing."

Ingrid paused from her (delicious, delicious) meal to give this some thought. It wasn't usual for Sylvain to be so... self-aware.

"Is everything okay?" she said suspiciously, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

He was still staring at the sky with his signature cavalier, unaffected smile. "Yup."

"You know, if you feel bad for causing me so many problems, you could always _stop._ "

"Yup." Popped the 'p.'

She rolled her eyes at that. "But you're not going to."

"Can I just buy you food instead?"

Ingrid kicked him in the thigh and was rewarded with a choked laugh. "Oh, to be a thoughtless and frivolous young heir with an exorbitant allowance."

"Hey, once we're married, you could always poison me and inherit all my assets," Sylvain said. "You'd be rich and single. What more could you want?"

Ingrid dropped her spoon.

A cold silence fell on the cliffside.

Sylvain tilted his head to look at her. He sat up quickly, the grin on his face melting away into a petrified look. "Ing, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Don't joke about dying." Her voice sounded strange to her own ears: a whisper, but assertive.

She felt Sylvain's hand on her shoulder, grounding her, real and warm. He pulled her back into the space lit by a vibrant sunset, chasing away that cloudy, rainless day over a burning casket.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Ingrid breathed in and fought for a thin smile to lighten the mood. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"I'm your idiot, you know that?"

" _Goddess,_ you actually are an idiot."

He laughed, and all was right with the world. They sat there, legs swinging over the abyss, watching as the last rays of the sun winked out into deep blue. Ingrid looked out into the cliffside dotted with verdant trees, felt the freedom of the evening breeze in her hair, and thought to herself, _just_ to herself—that in this moment, there was no one she wanted by her side more than Sylvain.

She lowered her now empty plate and took up the rose again. In the fading light, it was starting to darken to a gentle purple, sleepy and companionable.

"Hey, Ing?" said Sylvain softly.

She looked at him.

He reached into his pocket and turned to face her. A delicate box of ornate wood sprung open in his hands. She caught a glimmer of green settled in the dark velvet.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Sylvain's gaze was resting on her, warm hazel and unreadable.

"Will you marry me?" he said.

His words sank into Ingrid's chest. She was distinctly aware of the deep, uneven throbbing in her wrists and neck. Heat clawed up to her face, filling her cheeks with a dusty pink flush.

It wasn't bombastic and showy. It was quiet and intimate, almost as if Sylvain was just a boy proposing to a girl he liked. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was real.

"Yes," she whispered.

Maybe her acceptance was real.

Sylvain smiled—not his usual crude fare, bright and unaffected, but a genuinely soft thing made of bergamot and growing starlight. He plucked the ring from its box and took Ingrid's hand. She felt the calluses on his fingers scrape lightly on her palm, filling in the spaces between her fingers as he gingerly slid on the ring.

She was probably imagining it when his touch lingered just a little too long.

Sylvain pulled back, admiring the green gemstone on her hand. "Matches your eyes," he said with a teasing grin.

Ingrid looked at it. It was a vibrant emerald framed in elegant sterling swashes. It looked strange and out of place on her hand, and yet, she couldn't imagine taking it off.

"Does it?" she asked.

"Sure does." He nodded at the ring, then turned back to the sky and said nothing more.

She wasn't supposed to feel flustered, but she did. Something about his tone had been quiet, almost reverent—like her eyes were as beautiful as gemstones, and he could pay her no higher compliment than comparing them to her ring. She wasn't used to this Sylvain who could unsettle her, fluster her, and shockingly enough, make her want _more_ of it.

Then the thought struck her like lightning: it was the perfect moment for a kiss.

But Sylvain made no move to, and Ingrid wasn't sure she was supposed to bring it up. This was a rare moment where she cursed her lack of relationship experience. Was she overthinking things? Or was it better to point out a detail that they might actually be missing?

Well. She wasn't the kind of girl to do things halfway.

Ingrid cleared her throat and tightened the grip on her rose. "Should we kiss?" she managed, then flushed. "For a consistent story."

Sylvain blinked at her. Then he laughed lightly and turned back to the last embers of the sunset.

"I guess most people kiss at proposals, don't they?" he said.

"They do." Her pulse was racing so fast that it was starting to _hurt._ Had this been a dumb idea? Had she jeopardized the operation already? What if he laughed at her? What if he _accepted?_ What would she even—

"Nah," Sylvain said distantly. "Let's not. I don't see much of a point without an audience."

His words crushed her inside. She felt her gut fall to somewhere in her feet, and her heartbeat slowed. "Right," her mouth said automatically. "Right, not much of a point."

They sat there, side-by-side, watching as the sun bled below the horizon.

Ingrid held her rose with white fingers until her nails cut into the stem.

 _He took me flying,_ she'd tell Annette and Mercedes later as they curled up eagerly on her bed, consuming every last detail. _We went to this cliffside where he'd laid out a picnic, blanket and flowers and dinner and everything._

_It was beautiful. It was romantic. It was so unlike him, so kind and thoughtful._

And in her mind, unspoken: _It hurt like hell._

.

.

.

"It is good that you finally saw sense, boy," said Margrave Gautier.

Sylvain stood in the audience chamber of his homeland, spine rigid and hands kept tightly at his sides. Around him, the stone glowered coldly in the dark, walls swooping up into cast-iron chandeliers and dark draping tapestries.

He repressed a shiver.

His aging father, the current Margrave Gautier, was a dour but foreboding man with broad-set shoulders and a sallow face. He had once been a great warrior, the keystone fighter against Sreng—a fact that he often tried to assert to Miklan and Sylvain between the lashes of his belt. Now, however, the patchwork threads of grey in his hair were only growing more apparent in the dim light. He'd married his wife with a staggering age difference, and it showed.

"Do you remember," said Margrave Gautier, commanding Sylvain's attention again, "that when you were but a boy, you swore you would never marry the Galatea girl?"

Sylvain remained silent and unmoving.

"'I will never trap her in your cage, Father,' you said." Margrave Gautier laughed, and Sylvain tensed. "Well, I am moderately grateful that you have finally grown out of your childish tantrums. The girl will be an adequate mother to your offspring."

Because she had a Crest.

"She is blessedly quiet and contrite. She nearly managed to keep you out of trouble when you were children. I should hope she continues to do so once you are wedded."

So that she could get him to obey his father.

"Hold the ceremony however you please; it matters not to me," continued Margrave Gautier, still in those grating, musty tones. "Following the ceremony, you shall bring her here for the customary nuptial leave. I fully expect you to remain a fortnight."

To get her pregnant as soon as possible.

Sylvain wanted to retch. Instead, he stared straight ahead, keeping that faint, unaffected smile on his face—the perfect expression of an obedient son who he'd concocted in his head. Maybe he couldn't get through this torturous meeting, but Perfect Sylvain could. No, Perfect Sylvain _had_ to; Ingrid's family needed the wedding to be officially blessed for the financial support.

Margrave Gautier hit the butt of his staff against the stone floor. "That is all. We can speak regarding your command of the estate following your graduation. Dismissed."

The dismissal couldn't have come soon enough. The one game that Sylvain had never been able to win was the one against his father.

He charmed a nameless village girl on the way back to the monastery with a few winks and sultry words. She pulled him behind her house, threw her arms around him, and kissed him. When the nausea flooded him, he shoved her away and rode off.

.

.

.

Ingrid had to answer to many familiar faces when she first started wearing her ring in public, but the identity of her greatest critic surprised her.

She was alone in the training grounds after hours, carefully sharpening the head of her lance on a whetstone, when she heard the faint crunch of shoes on the dusty ground.

She didn't look up. Only three people would be on the training grounds at this hour.

One was grading papers late into the night.

Another was currently giving her and Sylvain the silent treatment after seeing her ring.

And the third... was a schemer.

"What are you up to now, Claude?" she called, letting her voice ring in the dead of the night.

The figure skulking by the entryway drew out into the light. A brilliantly golden cape flared beneath the moonlight, and Claude von Reigen sauntered up to her with his hands linked behind his head.

"Be honest with me, Ingrid," he said jauntily. "Am I getting predictable?"

"Do you want the truth?" Ingrid returned.

Claude laughed. "Ouch," he said, but it held no bite. Ingrid's words always seemed to bounce off of him. "And what are you up to at this hour, hm? You've been tending that lance all day."

Ingrid bit her lip. "Couldn't sleep," she admitted. With Sylvain gone to the Gautier estate, she'd been tossing and turning every night. What if his father disapproved? What if all of their plans had been for naught? Or, saints forbid, what if Sylvain slipped up and they were _discovered?_

She knew that she should have more faith in Sylvain; she'd seen for herself how conniving he could get when he wanted to. Still, she worried. It was her default response to just about anything.

"I'm not surprised you can't sleep," Claude said easily. "I, too, would be nervous at entering a loveless marriage."

Ingrid's pulse stopped for a moment.

The court was oppressively silent.

Panic throbbed somewhere in her chest—and beneath it, a weird, twisty sense of pain. Loveless. Of course; that's what it would be. Friendly, but loveless. Understanding, but loveless.

And somehow, Claude knew.

Ingrid regained her composure. "I don't know what you mean," she said easily, keeping her face flat as she returned to the whetstone.

Claude raised a single brow. "First rule of the streets," he said, "is to never try to scam a conman."

Ingrid's fingers faltered, just slightly. The lancehead stumbled in her hands. It was barely noticeable, but Claude caught it, and his smile widened.

"You'll have to get your tells under control if you want to pull this off," he said.

"I still don't know what you're talking about," Ingrid said firmly.

Claude's smile faded, and his eyes fixed on hers. Ingrid swallowed, waiting. He said nothing, watching her run the lancehead against the whetstone.

"What is it?" Ingrid finally braved.

Claude tilted his head, like his eyes needed a better angle to see through hers. "Can you tell me just one thing? And be honest."

Her first reaction was to say _No, no way,_ but the sincerity of his tone stopped her. She nodded curtly. "Go for it."

"Was this your choice?"

A moment. Grinding whetstone, silent courtyard.

Was it her choice, and not arranged, not required, not forced upon her—

"It's my choice," Ingrid said firmly.

Another moment. The air was still, lacking a breeze. Claude watched her, his face closed and enigmatic.

"Alright, then," he said. His signature smile lifted back to his face, and he saluted her. "May you live happily ever after, Lady Galatea."

"Thanks."

"Don't eat any poisoned apples, or you'll be in trouble without true love's kiss."

"Get out."

.

.

.

"You want _me_ to officiate the wedding?" Professor Byleth Eisner said slowly, raising a single brow.

She was currently seated across from Sylvain, slumped in her teacher's chair with a quill in her hand and a stack of papers laid out in front of her. But despite her proper occupation, she was the complete opposite of Seteth. Her posture was slouched, her legs were crossed, and her hand wouldn't stop spinning her quill pen. She seemed more like a loosened bowstring than a prim and proper instructor.

Of course, that was also what made her popular.

Sylvain grinned. "I mean, you're technically an ordained member of the church, right? It's either you or some no-name priest. Professor Hanneman—he'd go on some tangent about Crests and totally forget where he was, and Professor Manuela, you know she wouldn't be able to hide her bitterness at still being single."

Byleth sighed. "You do realize that I'm ordained solely from nepotism, don't you?"

"Ah, but you're still ordained." At Byleth's reluctant silence, Sylvain threw in an extra helping of puppy eyes. "Pleeease, Professor? Everyone loves you."

"That's their mistake, not mine."

"C'mon, Professor."

She sighed again and rose, brushing down her skirt. "Fine," she said. "But I have one condition."

"Name it and it shall be done."

She threw him a wry look, and suddenly, her aura weighed down on him, serious and intense.

"You might be my student, Sylvain," she said, "but so is Ingrid. And if you sleep around and treat her like a worthless mistress, then I promise you this: I'll storm the Gautier domain, tear down the gates with my bare hands, and beat your ass to Enbarr and back. Are we clear?"

She was glowering, her hand on her sword, and Sylvain suddenly felt like a tiny mouse beneath the waiting eyes of a cat.

"Crystal," he said shakily.

They'd never be able to tell her that this was all a lie.

Byleth relaxed and slouched back in her chair, nodding at him. "Alright. Shoo. Get outta here."

Sylvain blinked. "What for?"

"I have to look up how to officiate a wedding." Her lips pulled up into a lopsided smile. "Believe it or not, that's not something they teach in mercenary cartels."

.

.

.

"Are you ready to sign your life away?" Sylvain asked four months ago in that secluded closet.

A small smile tugged at Ingrid's lips. "Are _you?_ "

Sylvain laughed and took the quill pen. "If it's with you, Lady Galatea? Always."

Ingrid held the spoon over the candle for a moment, letting the red wax melt. Then she dripped it carefully on the parchment next to the signatures. Two stamps of their signet rings later, and the deed was done.

"Well, Sir Gautier," Ingrid said, drawing to her feet and extending her hand, "it's a pleasure doing business with you."

"Business," Sylvain echoed.

He seized her hand and shook it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: the wedding! probably. most likely.


	3. The Baleful Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh... //sweats 
> 
> hello it's been a while

When Ingrid was little, she indulged in all sorts of dreams about her wedding.

Her wedding, she decided early on, was going to be _frilly_ and _glittery._ She never had the chance for lots of frills and glitter; such dresses were reserved for staying in shop displays with exorbitant price tags, taunting every little girl who dared to behold them.

And the banquet, of course, would be full of meat. Not the tough skins of starving hares or gnarled mountain goats—herb-seared venison, buttery lamb shank, prime boar roasted to perfection.

And above all, Ingrid’s wedding would be with someone she loved. Someone who she _adored_ singlemindedly, just how the knights adored their princesses in her storybooks.

But now, like a hunting dagger or a wooden arrow, Ingrid saw matrimony as a simple tool: necessary for survival and for peace, emotions be damned. The wedding was a sale, the honeymoon a transaction, the groom an asset.

Ingrid wished that she could’ve held onto that pure, tender view of marriage from her childhood. But she couldn’t. It made her hope for too much—vulnerable to too much. It was easier to see it as a job, safer to take it as a sacred duty. She would love for her family and not herself.

And now, sitting in the bridal waiting room with her bouquet clasped in her gloved hands, Ingrid waited obediently as Dorothea threaded the final pins into her hair.

“It’s the big day, Ingie,” Dorothea said softly. “How are you feeling?”

She was smiling, but her voice shook with emotion—pride, happiness, encouragement, concern. An ironic contrast from Ingrid, who only felt numb inside.

Ingrid managed a blithe smile. “Wonderful,” she lied.

Lying had become second nature to her. That scared her. It wasn’t the kind of person she wanted to become.

Dorothea threaded the last pin into place and spritzed something in her hair—a delicate, smooth scent like rose petals, and so unlike Ingrid.

“You look so gorgeous,” she murmured. “You’re going to knock Sylvain dead at the altar.”

“I hope not,” Ingrid said dryly. “To be widowed at 17 would be quite tragic.”

Dorothea only laughed and returned to the pins.

For one terrifying moment, Ingrid was overwhelmed with the urge to seize Dorothea, spill everything, beg for advice. _Dor, I don’t love him. Dor, this is all a lie. What do I do?_

But the urge died just as quickly as it rose, and Ingrid was left with nothing but a deep sense of shame. She couldn’t possibly ask that of a woman with Dorothea’s pain. She couldn’t ask that of someone who had to smile certain smiles and swallow her retching behind glasses of champagne, all to earn patronage to the Officers’ Academy. She couldn’t ask that of someone who was worshipped onstage and assaulted off of it, someone who had to pick up a sword not for knighthood, but for survival.

Love was a privilege. And Ingrid wouldn’t be the one to remind Dorothea of that.

So Ingrid pressed her lips together and tilted her chin up. Honor, stability, security. Those were reasons enough to step forward.

“All done.” Dorothea's face lifted into a gentle smile, enchantingly kind. “My. Aren’t you a work of art.”

Ingrid turned to the mirror.

A silver tiara was set on her brow, twined into shapely leaves and silver feathers, and fastened to a snowy veil. Layers of sheer fabric, inset with trails of glimmering diamond dust, swathed from her hips to her ankles, pooling behind her in an elegant train. Under the sun, the fabric glowed in a luscious ombre river from forest green to mint.

She looked like a woodland princess, straight out of one of her favorite novels: _Tales of the Starland Wood._

Unbidden, Ingrid felt tears rise to her eyes, prickling the back of her throat. Goddess. She’d never felt so _beautiful._

“Like I said,” Dorothea said softly, “I think it's time to buy Sylvain a coffin.”

Ingrid nearly rubbed her palms against her eyes, swallowing the dull pain—but Dorothea grabbed her wrist.

“Now, now,” Dorothea chided with a smile. “Watch the makeup.”

Ingrid spluttered out a weird, aching laugh. That’s right. Annette had been _hell-bent_ on doing her makeup, which glided shimmery, satin silver on her eyelids and blossom-pink blush on her porcelain cheeks. And Mercedes—she’d treated her hair with exotic oils and herbal shampoos, pampering it the entire week before the wedding.

Ingrid was a patchwork quilt, stitched together by the hands of her kindly friends.

She was thrilled to be beautiful, desirable, _drop-dead gorgeous_ for once in her life. Someone worth marrying.

And yet—

She was crushed to waste this effort, this love, this enthusiasm, all on—

A lie?

No, worse. A scam.

Dorothea watched her expression crumple, and she offered a flowery handkerchief with a teary smile.

“Oh, Ingie,” she said. “You act so tough, but your heart is just as soft as the rest of us.”

Ingrid carefully dabbed the handkerchief beneath her eyes— _careful of the liner, avoid the concealer_ —and laugh-sobbed again. “Thank you for all of this, Dor. You’re a saint, I swear.”

A light rap on the wooden doorframe made her quickly lower the handkerchief and glance over her shoulder.

Felix was leaning against the entrance, his face stoic and unreadable. Two knuckles were raised against the frame. He lowered them, his gaze flickering away.

Dorothea rose in her teal bridesmaid dress. “I’ll give you two some space,” she said, raising a brow.

She strode out the door without a backward glance, leaving them alone.

.

.

.

 _What are we going to do for the best man?_ Ingrid pondered several weeks prior, stooping over a stack of papers with Sylvain. _Felix and His Highness are both great options. His Highness would make a better speech, but the one who’s been at our side..._

 _Clearly, Felix just needs to be the maid of honor,_ Sylvain responded. _There. Problem solved._

Ingrid hit him on the shoulder.

The problem was not solved.

.

.

.

“How do I look?” Ingrid asked as Felix slid into the room.

She smiled to lighten the mood, and even managed a playful twirl. Heavy layers upon heavy layers swam about her hips, luxurious and coursing.

Felix looked away. “Very green,” he said bluntly. Then amended: “Green and white.”

That wrestled a genuine chortle out of Ingrid, who slapped him on the shoulder.

“You know just what to say to a woman,” she said dryly.

Felix rubbed his shoulder. “Does it matter?”

“Just, during the procession, do me a favor.” She sighed. “The groom’s party and the bride’s party walk together in pairs. Please just quietly take your partner’s arm and walk her down. No glares or hissy fits of disgust. It’ll just be for five seconds, I promise.”

Felix’s gaze shifted, and he looked oddly distracted. Ingrid frowned.

“Did you hear me?” she tried.

“I’m not deaf,” he snapped. “Of course I'll do that. It’s your wedding.”

He made it sound so matter-of-fact— _of course, it’s your special day, I’ll do that for you, I’ll do anything for you today_ —that she almost burst into tears from hearing it. Even _Felix_ was being considerate, almost downright sappy.

Goddess. She was embarrassingly emotional right now.

Felix folded his arms, looking anywhere but her. “I was thinking,” he said, clearing his throat. “What’s the order of the procession?”

“The order?” Ingrid frowned. “I’m not certain. I think it starts with the flower child...”

“Not that,” Felix said sharply. “The wedding party.”

It clicked, and Ingrid snapped her fingers.

“You want to know who you’re walking with,” she guessed.

Felix snorted. “Why would I care? It’s just five—”

“Annette Fantine Dominic.” She settled back on her chair, satisfied. “A housemate. You’ve even fought side-by-side. That should be enough to stay civil, right?”

Felix was dead silent, his face unusually expressionless. He nodded curtly and turned away, hands stuffed in his pockets.

That was as good as an enthusiastic cheer from him. Ingrid couldn’t tell whether it was because of his assigned partner, or because he was trying to be amicable on her wedding day.

It made her want to give him something in return. Anything.

Ingrid’s hands tightened on her bouquet. She stepped towards him, maneuvering her foot around the cumbersome train of her dress.

“Felix,” she said softly, “you know that this—all of this—won’t change things. Right?”

Felix looked at her, blinking. “What?”

“You’ll always have us.” She stepped forward again, carefully, as if on eggshells. “We’ll always have your back. That will never change, no matter what comes.”

Felix watched her face. She wondered what he was looking at; the canvas of perfect makeup, perhaps, or the hair tucked and tied just so, or maybe the pristine trappings of her dress.

He finally shook his head. His hand tightened as he leaned against the window, staring into the cold blue sky.

“Maybe it’s better for things to change,” he murmured.

That was not what Ingrid expected, much less from Felix. She gawked.

“What?” she said.

“It’s good,” Felix said bluntly.

His gaze turned on her: sharp, burning amber.

“That you got over him. He would’ve wanted you to move on.” He scoffed quietly and looked away. “Not that you should give a damn what he thinks. He's dead.”

Ingrid stopped breathing.

_Glenn._

She felt ice prickle all over, freezing her to the chair. Her lungs constricted painfully, panic holding her chest in a vice grip.

Glenn. How had she forgotten? The past few months had been a whirlwind, but Glenn, what would Glenn have thought? It was only a handful of years after his death, and here she was, throwing herself into a wedding—a _fake, loveless_ wedding that spit on the very idea of matrimony—with _Sylvain Jose Gautier._ Once Glenn stopped laughing, he would’ve beaten their asses to Enbarr and back.

How had she forgotten the innocent, careful love between them—brushed pinkies and rakish smiles and _don’t worry about an old fogey like me, you take your time_ —and replaced it with such empty, scheming, self-centered intentions?

How had she forgotten Glenn at all?

Ingrid’s fingers tightened, and she heard them crumple into the bouquet. She bit her tongue until it sizzled painfully and a drop of blood swelled from the tip.

Felix’s scowl darkened. “Don't cry,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”

No, he shouldn’t have. He should have let it lie. He should have let her forget.

Faintly, in the distance of the monastery, the bell tower tolled—once, twice, thrice—to call her for the ceremony. Ingrid’s fingers dug so tightly into her flowers that she heard a stem snap. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to run, run to the ends of the earth where no one could find her, not even the spirit of Glenn.

_Four Saints, what have we done?_

.

.

.

The cravat was a noose around Sylvain’s neck.

He grimaced as he adjusted it in the mirror, satin white tumbling over his shaking fingers. The knot was sloppy at the base of his collar; he redid it, stifling the urge to gag.

“Is something the matter, Sylvain?” came Dimitri’s voice from the other side of the room, polite and poised. “Do you require assistance?”

Sylvain watched as his grimace immediately tipped upside-down into an effortless smile. “No, no, Your Highness,” he called. “I could hardly take any pride if I was incapable of tying my own cravat.”

“Very well,” Dimitri said uncertainly. “There’s no need for shame, should you ever need any help.”

Sylvain laughed, light and free.

He wouldn’t tell Dimitri that he wore his blazer open for a reason—that every time a tight collar constricted his neck, he felt Miklan’s hands where only fabric was supposed to be. That thought was much too dark for Sylvain Jose Gautier to share on a day of blissful matrimony. Or ever, really.

Finally, Sylvain’s trembling fingers obeyed, and the knot was fastened. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, letting the air swell in his lungs and push down the rolling nausea.

Dimitri, thank the Goddess, seemed far too occupied in reciting his speech through silent lips to notice anything amiss.

“You’re really fine with being the best man?” Sylvain tried, turning to his friend with a glib smile.

Dimitri started slightly and cleared his throat, a gloved hand rising to adjust his own cravat. “I’m only sorry to take it away from Felix,” he said.

“Oh, Fe was adamantly against it.” Sylvain waved a hand. “Said that if we tried to put him on a stage and make him give a speech, he’d, ahem, shit all over us. Air out all the dirty laundry, so to speak.”

Dimitri blinked. “That doesn’t seem to be his style.”

Sylvain’s mouth tugged upward. “Yeah. It’s more likely that he’d just run away. Avoid it.” He clapped Dimitri on the shoulder. “As we need a truly stunning speech for a truly stunning couple, Ingrid and I decided not to risk it. You’ll deliver, won’t you, Your Highness?”

Dimitri’s eyes brightened, almost puppy-like, and he cleared his throat. “Of course, Sylvain. I’ve read several volumes of instruction by Hector von Ostia, a hearty fellow and beloved entertainer, in order to thoroughly prepare.”

“Oh, Goddess, reading. Not necessary.”

“Firstly, a speech made by the best man must uplift the newlywed groom and bride, whether that be through humor, edification, or anecdotes. Secondly, a proper speech ought to open with gratitude and close with a heartfelt toast. Thirdly—”

“Thirdly, _have fun,_ ” Sylvain cut in, laughing. “It’s a speech, not a science, Your Highness. I mean, S+ for effort and all, but try to enjoy yourself.”

Dimitri cleared his throat, looking slightly abashed. “But of course. Two of my best friends are to be wed. It's a momentous occasion.”

Sylvain’s grin lost some of its color. Dimitri hadn’t shown it, but the news must have been sudden indeed. He wondered if Dimitri had been blindsided, or maybe even resentful—like Felix.

“Sorry,” he found himself saying. “Was it... shocking?”

Dimitri frowned lightly. “Being asked to speak? Well, if I must be honest, no slim part of me was hoping that you might—“

“Ingrid and I,” Sylvain said, too nervous to realize he'd just cut off the Crown Prince. “Getting, uh. Married.”

He watched Dimitri settle back on his heels, thinking quietly. Flecked blue eyes drifted out the window, calculating something that Sylvain couldn’t see.

“I can’t say either way,” Dimitri said quietly. “On paper, the match has always been ideal. Compatible stations, a close bond of mutual trust, shared cultural understanding, with similar levels of intelligence—”

“Ooh, don’t let Ingrid hear you say that,” Sylvain said with a low whistle. “She’d be _livid._ ”

“Do not sell yourself short, Sylvain. I’ve seen your chess matches against the professor herself.” Dimitri’s gaze fell on him, the ice in his eyes shining through. “I was caught unawares in the... strength of your feelings, as it was something I had never sensed. However, I never doubted that should the two of you want it, you would have made a fearsome couple.”

He sighed, and a hint of sorrow touched the weight on his brow.

“Perhaps it should come as no surprise that I missed such a development,” he murmured. “I have been too wholly focused on myself.”

The guilt was pounding harder now, deeper in Sylvain’s gut, where it started to hurt.

It wasn’t Dimitri's fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. The whole thing had come out of left field because he and Ingrid had planned it that way.

Dimitri’s hand clapped him on the shoulder—with a bit more force than intended. Sylvain doubled over, gagging.

“For what it’s worth,” Dimitri said solemnly, “I’m glad that it’s you and Ingrid.”

Sylvain grimaced at the throbbing in his shoulder, but managed a nod. “Thanks, Your Highness,” he wheezed out. He’d have to check his back after that blow.

A knock sounded on the door frame—prompt, businesslike, and perfectly spaced apart. Sylvain looked up to see Professor Byleth Eisner sweeping into the room, the hard soles of her boots clicking against the floor. She was draped in the loose, high-collared robes of Seiros clergy, and the alien sight made Sylvain stare for a good minute at this unrecognizable creature.

Dimitri instantly stood and offered a quick, courteous bow—partially to hide the slight flush on his cheeks, Sylvain assumed.

“Pardon me, Professor,” Dimitri said. “I’ll give you a moment.”

He slipped out the door and shut it behind him, leaving Byleth and Sylvain in silence.

.

.

.

 _How should we invite your parents?_ Ingrid asked several weeks prior, the quill in her hand hovering over a neatly penned list of names.

Sylvain snorted. _Don’t bother,_ he said, the lower register of his voice thick with derision. _Gautier is too far and my father doesn’t care for weddings. He’d rather skip the whole affair and have us jump to babymaking, and my mother will follow him, like she always does._

Ingrid’s eyes softened, green and dewy as grass. _It’s your wedding, Sylvain._

_Exactly why I don’t want him there._

_Maybe they should attend for image’s sake. The surrounding houses will talk—_

_Ing,_ Sylvain said, and his fingers were shaking. _Please._

Ingrid was silent for a long moment. She reached over, and her fingers twined in his. Warmth pulsed in his palm and settled on his hand like a blanket.

They proceeded down the invitation list.

.

.

.

“I’ll have you know,” said Byleth blandly, “that there’s a 50% chance that I’m going to forget something very important, execute unintentional blasphemy, and irreparably offend your entire audience.”

An odd feeling bubbled in Sylvain’s chest, and he picked it out as genuine laughter. “But there’s a 50% chance that you’ll get everything just right, Professor. You’ve taken worse odds on certifications.”

“Certifications can be retaken,” Byleth said. “Wedding shouldn’t. Ideally.”

And Sylvain did actually laugh at that one.

The empty side room of the monastery felt different with the professor’s presence. Not exactly lively, or sunny, or even comforting—but it felt _full,_ like a bustling town or a marketplace at midday. _Right_ was the word, he supposed: the room felt right with Byleth Eisner in it, like she belonged there, and so did he.

“So,” he said casually, “did you come here to impart some final words of advice to this ignorant bachelor?”

Byleth glanced at him, the collar of her habit swallowing up her neck in a near-comedic way. “Not advice, no,” she said. “Just company, plain and simple.”

“Oh?” Sylvain crooked a brow. “Then pardon the prying question, but why aren’t you in Ingrid’s room?”

“Ingrid will have support,” Byleth said. Her eyes turned on him. “I could be wrong, but I feel like you don’t.”

Her words hit him in the back of the throat. Her gaze remained enigmatic and blank—no, not blank, carefully masked—but he felt her concern like a blanket on his shoulders, warm and tender. If he were Felix, he would’ve blustered some insult. If he were Dimitri, he would’ve quickly denied her observation with a polite smile.

He was neither.

“I’m deeply wounded, Professor,” Sylvain said, laughing without meaning. “Do you mean to imply that I have no friends? Shocking, honestly.”

“Rather than that,” Byleth said, measured, “I think you may have too many.”

Sylvain felt his jaw lock. And there it was: that spark of irritation, the emotion with no name, that the professor always managed to rise out of him without effort.

“Wise words from a traveling mercenary,” he said. A barb to her own isolation from society.

Byleth was unfazed. “I learned to discern my allies from my enemies.”

His jaw slackened.

Goddess. She didn’t pull any punches, even on his wedding day.

“What are you saying, Professor?” Sylvain said sharply.

She didn’t even spare him a glance. She sat there in all nonchalance, her tone as flat as the lack of emotion on her face.

“I’m just sitting here,” she said plainly. “And if you need an ear, I own two.”

And Sylvain’s mind was roaring between his temples, screaming in silence, rolling with the frenzy collecting in his stomach—

 _What the hell would you know, people never tried to use you for your Crest, you knew your friends from your enemies because people never tried to_ trick _you into thinking they were the other, you’ve never had to marry someone for a lie, you’ve never had to_ pretend—

But then Sylvain’s fury died as quickly as it rose, leaving only a dull, numbing sense of self-loathing.

He was pathetic.

“Nah,” he said distantly. His fingers pulled tight at his gloves, tight until they dug painfully into his nails. “I don’t think you’d get it.”

If he was aggravatingly dismissive, maybe she’d leave him alone. Maybe she’d get out of the room.

But Byleth didn’t move. She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze piercing and unmoving, relentless.

Outside, the wind sighed into the courtyard trees.

“I never knew what a good marriage looked like,” Byleth finally said. She paused. “My mother died. My father... he didn’t marry again. And the mercenary cartel, we were a rough bunch of people. Whenever the others talked about their families, it was always about ex-wives or bastard children.”

Unbidden, Sylvain’s gaze slid to her. “Really being a shining beacon of hope here, Professor,” he said with a rueful grin.

“I’m saying that you and Ingrid aren’t like that.” She looked him straight in the eye. “The bond that you have is something different. It’s something special.”

_It’s something fake._

“It's obvious that you two love each other. It’s incredibly genuine.”

_It’s really not._

“So you don’t have to worry what your relationship will or won’t be like. The important thing is that you’ll fight for it together.”

_Because it’s a symbiotic exchange. A business deal._

Sylvain pushed those thoughts away. They weren’t like him. He was an optimist, a romantic, a dreamer. He smiled charmingly at Byleth, ignoring the knot of unease still in his stomach.

“Thanks, Professor,” he said.

Byleth gave him a flat look. “I can tell when you're faking it.”

His smile dropped.

“I don’t know much about comforting people,” she said. She paused, then added: “I’m sorry.”

“No, it wasn’t—it’s not because you were bad at it.” He just couldn’t tell her the truth. And because of that, he was starting to realize just how lonely this path would be. Even the few people who tried to understand him would never be able to.

If there was anyone who knew the weight, the _curse_ of a Crest, it might be Ingrid. Ripped away from a life of stability and joy, she was thrust into an auction, destined to be sold off to the highest bidder.

And that was partially why he respected her so. Because she _hadn’t_ become embittered. Instead, she raised her chin, took on the burden with grace and dignity, and grew with it.

He wished he could be like that. Or maybe he wished he could be like anybody but himself.

Byleth tilted her head up to stare at the cobbled slats of the ceiling, earthy and uneven, jutting out against each other like sore thumbs. “Sylvain,” she mused, “what is true love?”

Sylvain blinked, then laughed a little out of instinct. “Whoa. Big question to lay on a kid, Professor.”

“Really?” said Byleth, and when she looked at him again, her eyes were sharp. “Because I think you know. I think you’ve always known, and that’s why you run from it.”

Sylvain’s breath fell out of his lungs, replaced by a dreary cold that refused to budge.

Finally, he knew what that emotion was, the angry heat that Professor Eisner stirred in his gut, the defensive, vicious resentment.

Vulnerability.

The knowledge that someone could see right through his defenses.

The awareness that he was _known._

The realization that he was entering into something where he _would_ be known, completely and utterly, and he couldn't escape it.

And outside, the bell tower tolled—

once,

twice,

thrice.

_Four Saints, what have we done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's ANGST SEASON, fellas. thank you for all the kind comments and love on this story! you all bless my day!!

**Author's Note:**

> [My Twitter!](https://twitter.com/lunachaili)


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